


To His Satisfaction

by danceswithoutwolves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, fluff is relatively speaking here, mairon needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithoutwolves/pseuds/danceswithoutwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor asks to see his lieutenant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To His Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Warning that I've messed with the timeline here: Mairon receives his promotion to lieutenant after the raising of Thangorodrim/rebuilding of Angband, and Melkor hasn't stolen the silmarils yet. Basically, a regression in terms of anything Angband- or silmaril-related, and a fast-forward concerning the whole. Well. Elf-slaughtering and havoc-wreaking deal.  
> Some liberties also taken with the layout of Angband and the general use of the English language.  
> I advise you to sit back, disregard canon, ignore the sound of Tolkien rolling over in his grave, and enjoy the ride!

“Are they to your satisfaction?”

Chin aloft, eyes ensnared in the gaze of his lord, Mairon holds his arms out with concave palms facing upwards: a signal _stay_ to the beasts flanking him on either side.  Flickering torchlight illuminates the left side of Melkor’s face; crimson and gold gnaw at the shadows below cheekbone and jaw. The shadows dance as he tips his face to the side, appraises his lieutenant’s work shrewdly.

On the features of his lord an inscrutable expression slowly emerges, a subtle shift in the shadows revealing the change; Mairon cannot place it and therefore fears it as experience has taught him he should, casting his gaze down to the obsidian floor in a gesture of subservience. From their iron holsters on the wall, the flames augment his eyelashes into long shadows fanning out in elegancy, a striking contrast to the snowy skin beneath. His lord speaks after a moment and Mairon again meets his eyes, confident his gesture has been received.

“Surely they are capable of more.”

Whether the barb was intentional or not, it finds its mark nonetheless in Mairon’s heart; pierces him irrationally to the crux of his being, poison seeping from the point of impact to flow acrid through his veins. Hurriedly the response surges out, his acute resentment of the notion of Melkor thinking him inept making itself audible: “Of course, my lord.”

Haughtily he sets his jaw, missing the minute twitch Melkor’s lips give, and spreads his hands wide before clenching them forcefully enough that they waver in the air. The werewolves aside him respond instantaneously, tearing across the room to halt inches from Melkor and stand sanguinary, snarling, the guttural sound amplified by the echoing the hall creates. For all their docility seconds ago, the malice bred painstakingly into their kind claws to the surface, brands itself into the fabric of the world and clings hard.

Incisors gnash, grind, yet Melkor does not so much as flinch, the beasts incapable of rending his composure. “Return,” Mairon’s voice rises above the awful cacophony and the wolves saunter back to their former positions, dread guards of their master.

Mairon reiterates his earlier question—he stutters on the first word and internally berates himself—and awaits the assessment of his lord. Melkor avoids answering the vulnerable inquiry, instead responding: “You may leave. See me this afternoon at the western gate.” He refers to one of the stone gates carven at intervals into the sides of Thangorodrim, the western one of which opens onto a narrow pathway hugging the slope of the mountain and ending in a steel balcony. Mairon nods his assent and turns on his heel, the werewolves close behind him as he strides through the wide archway doubling as entrance and exit.

He waits until his lord cannot see him to bite gently on his lower lip, teeth scraping lightly over the flesh: a habit picked up when he claimed allegiance to Aulë.

Through desolate corridors and stairways Mairon and his wolves traverse, the path to their destination arcane to even some of the oldest denizens of Angband. The utter silence fractured only by the rhythmic tapping of his boots, he leads them down to the lowest levels of the fortress. The steady sound lulls his frayed nerves, each tap a sedative for the heartbeat pounding with the ferocity of a war-drum below his ear. Away from his lord, sensible thought reclaims his mind, drives out the irrational, feebly emotional tangents catalyzed by the mere presence of Melkor. _If his lord truly felt displeasure at his work, he would’ve been reprimanded,_ Mairon rationalizes, then winces as his teeth catch on the ring adorning his lower lip.

So many years ago Melkor had encouraged him to forge the ring. Near the beginning of their acquaintanceship, if Mairon recalls correctly. Under the stern command of Aulë, fright had consumed him at the notion of creation without the approbation of his lord; he refused to forge it. One day Melkor had sauntered up to his smithy and given him the ring; by Melkor’s own hand had it been masterfully wrought, a stunning pattern engraved into the gold…

Remembrance of how he acquired the piece of jewelry distracts him, and by the time his feet have led him to the sprawling area designated for the wolves—it is a renovated dungeon, yet none call it by that name—his worries concerning Melkor are quelled by the memory.

 

His relief lasts a scant few moments, as promptly after he leaves the wolves and begins his ascent back up the stairs, he stumbles, catches himself on leather-clad knees and splayed hands. A dull shuffling reaches his ears and he looks up in time to meet the eyes of an orc turning the corner above him. Ungainly Mairon scrambles to his feet, flicking locks of hair out of his face before frantically attempting to resume some form of dignified posture.

“My lord,” speaks the orc, stooping into a grotesque mockery of a bow before righting itself and continuing down the steps. Mairon does not dignify the orc with a reply, merely raises his chin to demonstrate he has heard the orc’s address, and as soon as he finds himself alone again, drops his chin and shoulders. Lieutenant as of one day, and he has already abased himself in front of one he is supposed to command _._ Humiliation washes over him, a wave overwhelming and abhorrent, and he huffs a mirthless laugh, lip curving into an involuntary sneer: _an insecure maia is hardly the stuff of lords._

Mairon allows himself a steadying breath; something to chase away the fog threatening to pervade his mind, remind him of his inadequacies as a lord. The crutch doesn’t have its intended effect, however, and so with a faint trace of nausea, he navigates the labyrinthine corridors of Angband until finding himself in his own chambers, facedown with limbs splayed out over the surface of his bed.

He buries his face in a pillow, the ring on his lip pressed uncomfortably against the cloth, but he lacks the capacity to care. Though the morning still is fresh, fibers of drowsiness yet cling to Mairon. Out of all awareness he slips easily, blissful unconsciousness claiming him as he dreams of things other than his lord’s disapproval and his own faults.

 

Amber eyes crack open some time later, roaming blearily over the high ceiling as Mairon meanders his way back to consciousness. He stretches catlike and languid, the arch of his back graceful– until something cracks that certainly isn’t supposed to crack, and he is made aware of his awkward position atop the bed: limbs sprawled haphazardly and hair a tangled mess. Lazily he lolls his head to the side, bringing his limbs out of their bizarre contortions yet making no move to leave the bed.

Content to merely lie there blinking the lingering threads of drowsiness away, he brings one hand up to work through the knots in his hair that his unconscious rolling about has caused. The soft rustle of parchment sliding under his door evades his detection.

For one more minute he lies there, then deems his respite over, rolling out of bed. He pads over to the mirror hanging on his wall to inspect his hair, vainly satisfied with the way the tresses cascade down.

The fancy suddenly strikes him to go down to his forge, and for lack of anything else to do he follows the whim, missing the note on his floor when he crosses the threshold of his room. Down to the lowest level of Angband he navigates the winding halls; as soon as he descends the last stairway, the shift in temperature becomes apparent, suffocating heat saturating the air.

Over his many years toiling in the sweltering place, he has gained immunity to the feeling of, absurdly, stepping into some fiery maw; instead he welcomes it as an extension of his quarters, a haven of tranquility and the euphonious sounds of metalworking. Nonetheless, he rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and ties his hair back, sweat already beading on his brow.

Immersed in the forge, Mairon quickly loses track of time, the world narrowing down to heated metal molded by dexterous hands. Ornaments of gold and steel lie strewn about his workspace; fine filigrees of silver snake their way up the delicate curves of his work, resplendent. With the finesse with which he has woven lies into the hearts of elves to crush their fleeting civilizations, he manipulates the metal to his liking, a lovely ring taking shape under his ministrations.

Eventually he pauses, holding the ring up to inspect his progress. In the center of the band he has left a small cavity, and idly the thought crosses his mind that some azure gem would look splendid set there. Perhaps on the hand of his lord, a pale echo of the splendor of his eyes, yet an echo nonetheless; dazzling, glistening in the torchlight while the vala sprawls sinuous across his throne. As the image of Melkor wearing his token materializes in his mind, another thought closely follows: _he has forgotten his lord’s command._

He was ordered to meet his lord at the western gate, and he forgot.

Adopting the mannerisms of a frightened doe, he drops his tools, stowing them away haphazardly with shaky hands and scampering out of the smithy. Whilst ascending the staircase he narrowly avoids bowling over a pair of elves; in their servility they scatter at his presence, eyes trained on the steps for fear of the ramifications of sustaining any length of eye contact with Mairon.

For a moment, he can almost empathize with them.

Up several stairways he flies and down a myriad of hallways he sprints, panic-stricken, and oh, what a sight he must make– ponytail swinging wildly about, forearms exposed, appearing undeniably debauched as he darts through Angband. If anyone notices the absurdity, and undeniably they have, he neither lingers long enough for them to voice their judgment nor concerns himself with their opinions. Rather, his sole focus is the ire he will inexorably face in moments.

Upon reaching the gate, he halts, heart hammering allegro in his throat. Trembling fingers reach up, untie the ruined ponytail. A golden curtain cascades down, and with the barricade in place, he pushes the gate open. Melkor does not linger by the gate, Mairon discovers, yet this comes as no surprise: he’ll have breezed past the gate, gone down to the balcony to await his lieutenant.

Dusk reigns quietly across the land, the sun encroaching upon the line of the horizon, and the true extent of his lateness dawns upon him: Melkor had instructed Mairon to meet him in the afternoon. When he would’ve arrived Mairon cannot guess, but if he still remains, Mairon will be sincerely stunned. Melkor waits for none.

Or perhaps Melkor does await his presence, not to accommodate his belatedness out of charity, of course, but to berate him.   _If the initial reason his lord demanded to see him was to reprimand him, to claim his wolves were unsatisfactory, what then? How much worse shall his punishment be due to this lateness?_

Folly though hope may feel, Mairon entertains the fantasy that he will be able to redress the fault. He scours his mind for ways to phrase his contrition, a way to abate his lord’s wrath.

No words can sway Melkor from a path he chooses though, especially if the path is steeped in bellicosities. Mairon knows this intimately.

What lurid fate looms ahead?

Before turning the final corner of the pathway, he stalls, hopes his lord will not come into his sight. A crease etches itself into his forehead, a manifestation of his anxiety; chill wind ensnares strands of molten hair and twirls them about capriciously, nips at his bare skin. The likeness to a nudge forward unsettles him.

A clear voice suddenly rings out: “You linger, Mairon.” The unspoken command hangs blatantly in the air.

“I– I apologize, my lord,” he stammers, stepping hurriedly around the corner. Melkor stands with one hand curled around the railing of the balcony; the failing sun twines scarlet gossamers through his raven hair and casts iridescent rays onto his cloak, striving to find itself acknowledged in the obsidian fabric; one final blaze of radiance before darkness smothers its memory. Mairon finds himself intimidated, halts unwilling to encroach upon such grandeur.

“I take it you did not receive my note.”

“N-note?” Such horror takes hold as the impact of yet another failure strikes him. Melkor gives no response for an unsettling length of time, and Mairon dares not speak lest he incur his lord’s wrath.

“Come closer.” Melkor says silkily, and turns toward him.

Mairon inhales, feet shuffling about mutinously rather than bearing him any closer to his lord; from some unfathomable depths he dredges up the will to obey. As he approaches, Melkor undoubtedly sees the trepidation simmering in his eyes. He doesn’t comment, however, instead shifting his gaze to the side of Mairon, over the edge of the balcony and into the red-stained atmosphere. Something fey dances in his eyes as they rove across the clouds.

“It is beautiful, is it not?”

Of all the things he expected his lord to declare, the splendor of a sunset did not number among them. Confusedly, Mairon agrees: “Yes, it is.”

“I had hoped it would be… to your satisfaction,” Melkor muses, turning back to face him. The jab at his phrasing from earlier in the day goes not undetected, wordplay an art Mairon has long since mastered, but it carries no apparent malice.

He blinks, comprehension failing to dawn on him; approval a thing foreign. “You– you were not displeased with–”

“Mairon.” Melkor silences him with the word. Metallic clinks resonate, suppressed by the light breeze, as he steps towards Mairon; rooted to the spot Mairon stands, his instincts crying for him to _flee._ Melkor raises a hand slowly, and instinctively Mairon flinches, but he merely brushes away a strand of hair the wind has blown into Mairon’s face.

“I’m proud of you, Mairon,” he doesn’t bring his palm down. The feather-light touch sings across Mairon’s skin, his nerve endings alight with something intoxicating, enthralling. Lips part, words forming and crumbling upon them, and he can do nothing but breathe, stare transfixed into the ice-blue eyes of Melkor. The hand twists, surreptitiously cups his cheek, but moves no further– Melkor is allowing him to decide how this continues.

Dizzy, Mairon turns into the touch; a thrill of electricity spirals through his body. He blinks, assuring himself this is reality; this is not some fantasy played out solely in the depths of his unconsciousness, forgotten all but for hazy memories; and it is as crushingly real as the oceans of blood Melkor and he have spilt together.

He breathes the moment in, loses himself in the delicate poignancy of it. His eyes fall on the lips of his lord, then dart rapidly back up to winter-blue eyes. Melkor’s lips curl into a knowing grin as he takes in the hesitancy of his inferior, and he bridges the gap between them in one languid step, right hand ensnaring Mairon’s waist. Cool breath ghosts across the planes of his face, chilling, enticing. His lips part; Melkor cups his face the slightest bit more firmly; and just as Mairon feels that his chest may burst if this fragile dance continues, their lips meet.

The kiss is gentle, surprisingly so. Melkor’s lips are soft, pressed oh so lightly against his own, and his mind tries to link this tenderness to the renowned Dark Lord who wields death brazenly in his palms, burns races from the face of the earth and wreaks devastation upon their ashes, but the endeavor fails.

Too soon Melkor pulls back, watches the way Mairon’s eyelashes flutter lazily open to gaze up at him. In such proximity, Mairon savors the details of Melkor’s face. He maps the pale curvature of his lips, a smirk lifting one side of them, memorizes the way light plays off sculpted cheekbones and loses himself in the ethereality of Melkor’s eyes. Engrossed they stand, terrible and beautiful in the dying light.

At once they surge forwards again, lips colliding; moving brutal, desperate. Mairon’s hands fly up instinctively, tangle in the ebony silk of Melkor’s hair and he clings unyielding, desire ablaze. Muscled arms shift around him as Melkor grips him with both hands about the waist possessively.

Protectively.

They are hardly the quintessence of romance, but Mairon feels genuine happiness. For some indeterminate measure of time they stand entwined on the balcony; the sun slinks behind the horizon, the last vestiges of sunlight dissolving into a blanket of stars, and silver beams of light shine down radiant upon the fallen ainur.

 

So begins the tale of Melkor and Mairon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, nothing like some werewolves and a good old fashioned cheesy first kiss.


End file.
